Grave Misgivings
by Rassilon001
Summary: Johann Schmidt, aka the Red Skull, finds himself lost and alone on a dead world following his last conflict with Captain America aboard the Valkyrie. Watch his downward spiral into madness as he comes to realize everything he believed in is a lie. And what new and terrible thing emerges from that revelation.
1. Descent

**Disclaimer:  
**I do not own Captain America the First Avenger or any of its characters, especially not the Red Skull. They are all property of Marvel Comics, Marvel Studios and Paramount Pictures.

**Summary:  
**Johann Schmidt, aka the Red Skull, finds himself lost and alone on a dead world following his last conflict with Captain America aboard the Valkyrie. Watch his downward spiral into madness as he comes to realize everything he believed in is a lie. And what new and terrible thing emerges from that revelation. Rated PG-13 for Madness and Violence.

* * *

The air howled like a great beast as the plane plummeted back to Earth. Its pilot crawled down a support column towards the instrument panel, desperate to regain control before it splashed down in the arctic waters and they were all killed. Finally, he hauled himself forward and flicked the appropriate switches to activate the autopilot function. Gravity re-asserted itself as he slammed onto the ground by the control chair, and the Valkyrie levelled itself out and began to climb back to its cruising altitude.

Clawing his way back up the console, the Red Skull whipped out his sidearm and turned to face his enemy. Modified from a simple P08 Luger, it had enough destructive force to vaporize the insufferable Steven Rogers and wipe him clean out of existence.

All his plans lay in ruins, most of his forces had been routed, even the Valkyrie was coming apart at the seams. But it could all be salvaged, and the victory he'd envisioned could still come to pass, if only he could rid himself of one stubborn _super_ soldier.

"You could have had the power of the Gods!"

The wind howled through the broken canopy as Johann Schmidt roared his words, punctuating them with laser fire. And still the damned Captain would not fall. His body would not break, his ideals would not corrode. Schmidt hated him as he had never hated anyone before, an intense rage like a physical force pounding right alongside his heart.

"Instead you wear a flag on your chest and think you fight a battle of nations!" he continued, taking aim.

Captain America made his move, ducking behind another column, and he followed him with Tesseract-fueled gun bursts, trying to drive him into the open. He had lost his shield. One clear shot, and it would all be over. Another blast, sheering through the side of the column, but again failing to connect with his target.

"I have seen the future, Captain! There are _no_ _flags_!"

"Not my future!"

There! The Captain was already in motion, trying to reclaim his precious shield. The Red Skull opened fire, but he wasn't fast enough, and his shot bounced off the special metal, dispersing harmlessly. He may as well have thrown water at the Captain. Seconds later, a disc of red, white and blue slammed into his gut, sending him crashing into the Tesseracts storage container. He felt the impact like a battering ram in his gut, but the Valkyrie's engine all but shattered from it. Lightning crackled along its frame as Godly power tried to find an output.

"What have you _done_?! No!"

The Red Skull scrambled to his feet, instinctively reached for the Tesseract, picking it up in his gloved hand to keep it protectively close, away from his enemy. He would not let the Captain win again. He had forgotten the warning of the old man, that whomever took hold of the Cube would burn. But even when he did finally recall, he could not put it down. It was beautiful: a source of limitless and unbridled power, locked in such a tiny, perfect cube.

Lightning erupted from it, coalescing all around him, but he felt nothing but unbridled joy as the air overhead lit up with a vision of the galaxy, stars and nebulas swirling overhead in a multitude of colors. The Cube was the key to changing not only this world, but all worlds. The realms of the Gods themselves were open to him, waiting to be stepped into.

Suddenly the Tesseract convulsed in his hand, pulsing with energy. It poured out in greater and greater quantities, even as the Red Skull gaped in disbelief. He watched as his hand began to disintegrate, piece by piece being swallowed up by the maelstrom of cosmic light. The raw, unbridled power washed over him as he gave a mighty roar of defiance. He could not lose control now. He was too close!

His destiny was within reach!

"NNNNNNAAAAAAHHHHHHUUUUUUGGGGGGHH!"

A bright flash of white... and then Johann Schmidt knew no more.

* * *

Pain.

Blinding pain. In his head. Throughout his body. Every single bone ached, every single nerve was on fire. His scarlet skin felt hot to the touch, as if he'd been through a blazing inferno. The Red Skull had not felt this sort of raw agony since the day he'd taken Erskine's super soldier serum and _burned_.

The worst was the aching in the back of his head, his brain throbbing in his skull. His eyes, already shut, squeezed tightly as he tried to will the sensation away. The pain faded slowly. It did not die away entirely, but it would suffice for now. Slowly, he sat up, but he could not believe his eyes.

"What? What happened? Where am I?" he rasped.

He lay in the midst of a misty wasteland unlike any he had ever seen or heard of. Beneath him the ground was solid enough, but rocky and bare. Only the occasional tree broke through the ground, but they were all dead and blackened, any bark having long since petrified. No fresh vegetation had grown here in ages from the looks of it, this land was lifeless as a graveyard. In the distance, he vaguely made out a passing riverbank, but the mist prevented him from seeing too many details, shrouding them in mystery. All in all, he had no idea where he was. Even the sky overhead was unfamiliar and alien, a dull, glazy amber tint trapped in a perpetual dusk.

And given how he'd arrived... could he have been...?

But no, he certainly didn't feel dead. He still drew breath, he felt his heart beat underneath his ribcage. The aching of his head, the pain, felt truly substantial as anything else he'd ever felt in his life. No, he felt alive.

It did not explain his current situation, but it gave him something to hold on to, and right now he seized it in his hands and held it close.

Taking stock of the situation, he found he was still dressed in his flight uniform, which was undamaged. The holster for his luger was empty, he'd dropped it during the fight. Nor was the Tesseract anywhere in sight. It too must have been dropped back on the Valkyrie, in which case by now it was probably in the hands of the Allies. Stark would probably find a way to weaponize it just as Zola had. The tide of the War would undoubtedly turn in the favor of the enemy...

_Things to worry about later_, he reminded himself.

Right now he was alone, weaponless and helpless. He needed to find out where he was. Grimly, he pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the way his legs wobbled.

Tugging open the front of his flight uniform, he pulled out the handheld communicator he'd brought for his mission, thankful it hadn't been damaged in the fight with Captain America. Drawing out the long antennae and adjusting the frequency, he scanned the airwaves for Hydra transmissions.

"Hailing Hydra... is anyone receiving me...?"

Only static greeted him, try though he might to find a signal.

"Repeat, this is the Supreme Head of Hydra. Contacting Hydra Headquarters. Respond...!"

Yet more static. He adjusted the frequency, reluctantly checking for other signals. Neither the Allies nor the Axis Powers would let him go free, he would be far too valuable as a prisoner or war criminal for that. None the less, the attempts to contact them were equally futile, resulting only in more static.

Finally, disgusted, threw down the receiver hard enough to smash it into a dozen pieces on the rocky ground. Wherever he was, he was definitely on his own.

Every part of the blasted landscape looked identical, and the sky offered no clues to guide him. Settling on a particular direction out of random choice, he took off marching. If nothing else, the land held a slight slope, and he headed in the direction that seemed to curve vaguely uphill. Perhaps once above the layer of fog he could find landmarks to identify his position.

As with the belief he was still alive, he held no proof his assumptions were true. But they were all he had now, so he clung to them tightly.

* * *

He marched for a long time, passing by numerous blackened trees and rocky outcroppings, but little else. Not even a single bird flew in the dark sky overhead. His head continued to throb, and his limbs felt weaker than he liked, but he soldiered on by sheer force of will.

His flight suit helped to keep him reasonably warm, for the mists were chilly as the Switzerland fortress where Hydra's final base had been. Though his stomach ached for lack of food, he knew he could press on for days, perhaps even weeks thanks to Erskine's serum. The pain was good, it helped him to keep his mind focused.

He could also go whole days without rest or sleep, though this was harder to manage the longer he went without sustenance as well. With no way of marking the time in the sky, no sun or moon to speak of, he could have been walking for minutes, hours, or even days. He may have even blacked out once or twice, only to find his body had continued walking on while his mind had faded from the waking world.

Rivers zig-zagged the landscape, flowing in the opposite direction that he walked. Perhaps he'd find their source if he continued on far enough. Though his throat was parched and his body craved liquid, he knew better than to try to drink from the tainted flow of water. Even from a dozen yards away he could smell the foul air rising up from them. Likely, they were poisonous. The sky overhead never changed, there was no dawn here, in this Realm of the Dead in which he walked.

No dawn, no day, no night. Only eternal dusk, and the strange alien sky of misplaced stars overhead.

For all he knew, if he kept walking long enough, he'd see his own boot prints in the ground in front of him, find he'd walked in a full circle. Or he'd keep walking right over the edge of eternity and into nothingness. Even so, he kept moving forward, if for no other reason than he had nothing better to do with his time. There was quite literally nothing else he could do but press on.

Finally, however, he could go no further. There was no point. Perhaps he _was_ dead, and this was his Hell. A most ignoble fate for one such as he, the found and head of Hydra. He might have welcomed the pitchforks and blazing coals that others rattled on about day and night instead of this vast empty wasteland.

Slumping against the petrified wood of a nearby tree, he sighed, all the breath leaving his body as his consciousness starting to fade...

"_Weak_..."

"_Broken_..."

"_Pathetic_..."

Instantly he was alert, head snapping up, climbing unsteadily to his feet. The Red Skull's eyes darted in every direction trying to find the source of the whispers he'd heard. Nothing could be seen, though with the damned fog so thick in every direction, it was impossible to say for certain. Shadows and shapes seemed to be moving, but always on the periphery of his vision. Nothing stayed solid long enough to confirm it was there. He listened again, but no more sounds came. It was quiet as a tomb. Even so, he could not help but feel a nameless dread creep over him. There was _something_ out here, in the mist.

Something watching him.

* * *

**Authors Notes:  
**Captain America is easily one of my favorite heroes, which naturally makes the Red Skull one of my favorite villains. At first I was a bit puzzled why, but then I realized I identified a lot with not just one, but both of them. Maybe moreso than I probably should, especially in the latter's case.

This is a rare story I hope is proven wrong, because it means he'll be back. Until then it's something to tide over fans of the truly evil founder of Hydra.

I will address the recent revelations that the Infinity Stone could have killed the Red Skull as they tend to do to mortals who touch them.

I'll leave his present location a mystery to be revealed in later chapters, but suffice to say I'm drawing descriptive influence from a lot of different portrayals in Marvel media and Norse Mythology. I'm sure more than a few of you have figured it out by now, from that hint if nothing else.


	2. Dementia

As he walked, the Red Skull found his mind wandering.

Back to his past, back to his very reason for being.

He had been young when he'd reached his first grand truth about existence: That mankind was broken.

All of his studies of sciences and mathematics were simple, everything added up, everything made sense. Perhaps some of it was beyond the understanding of ordinary men, but there was patterns to it that could be predicted, even if you could not follow, to the results.

But mankind... no other animal in Earth was so chaotic, so selfish, or so destructive as humans.

They had ruined the world. Stripped it of its resources, squandered its treasures, driven away the Gods. They fought amongst each other for land, for titles. Fought out of hate, out of pride, out of stupidity. Lied, cheated, stole, murdered.

Nor was mankind the only danger. During the War, the Red Skull had seen firsthand the emerging of something new in humanity. Evolution taking hold. Individuals with strange powers and abilities coming to the fore. Able to do things no one thought possible, not even probable. Their coming could be the beginning of the superior mankind he and others like him had always dreamed of. But only if their gifts were used wisely and for the greater good. They had to be kept under tight control, or things would only further spiral into chaos and anarchy.

To give humanity freedom to do as they please invited doom. And so they needed to be brought under the heel of a strong leader for their own good. Someone good, someone wise, someone who knew what was in their best interests.

And yet, for all his efforts to elevate humanity to its rightful place... they had resisted him.

The Red Skull grimaced as he remembered the many slights and blocks to his advancement in the political arena. His demeaning exile to the Switzerland fortress. He should have been the new Fuhrer, and Germany would have been the first country to be brought into Hydra's fold. Instead, they became nothing more than another enemy that clung to outdated beliefs of flags and patriotism. A Thousand Year Reich? He would set in motion an Earth united under Hydra that would last unto eternity itself.

Then there was his clashes with Captain America and the Allies.

Oh how he loathed the Captain, ever a thorn in his side. So naïve and misguided, thinking he could single-handedly save everyone. Yet without someone to rule, who was he truly saving them from? Who would save them from themselves? Captain Rogers was deluded, plain and simple. He lacked the vision that Hydra had. Most troubling of all, however, was the impact he had on others, inspiring them to follow his delusions.

Rampant madness.

And yet...

As the mists wrapped around him, and the whispers started... the Red Skull could not help but keep pondering the why. Why such madness had taken root. And in doing so, let the same seeds take root in his own thoughts, ready to blossom into something truly terrible indeed.

* * *

While not night, the sky seemed to grow darker as the mists grew thicker, at times obscuring even the ground itself. The Red Skull wandered aimlessly through the heavy fog, unable to see his way, but with nothing to gauge his path in sight. He felt certain he was still walking in a straight line, however. Shadows continued to flit past his vision, always just on the edge of sight, vanishingly just as quickly as they appeared. The air filled with sibilant whispers, snippets of conversations that faded in and out of his hearing, as if the speakers were deliberately moving around to confuse and disorient him.

Already on edge, the Red Skull stopped his walk, body tense. He had no weapon, but he was ready to fight. He'd trained for it, his body was physically superior to any enemy who could hope to challenge him, and his mind was sharp as ever.

Another whisper, and he whirled around, fist upraised to strike...

... only to stop short in amazement at the figure in front of him.

"No... you're dead."

Doctor Abraham Erskine, creator of the super soldier serum, stood before him, looking reasonably calm despite the cocked fist inches from his head. He looked the same as when the Red Skull had last seen him, slightly disheveled, dressed in a worn suit and lab coat. While not personally slain by the Red Skull, his death had been reported back to him, and had occurred on his order. Kluger had assassinated him. Yet here he stood.

The good doctor took a moment to adjust his glasses, giving a little half shrug. "I could say the same for you, Herr Schmidt. Appearances can be deceiving."

He took affront at that tone, glaring at the traitor scientist. "Don't lecture me, good doctor."

"Someone has to," Erskine replied. "You take too many reckless chances... and now, it seems, you've paid the price for your arrogance."

"I will not be timid when I can seize my destiny in my own two hands," he stated darkly. "Just as I seized it from you, despite all your attempts to thwart me."

"The serum wasn't ready," Erskine said. Not accusingly, just stating a matter of fact. "And more importantly, neither were you. You were lucky to have survived the procedure, let alone achieved any sort of results."

"I achieved what I set out to obtain," the Red Skull replied, fists clenched tightly. "My humanity, my weakness, stripped away!"

"Humanity is a strength," said the old man, smiling almost nostalgically. "The heart is not just a muscle, it is the container for our souls. Souls bound in flesh but bidden to seek out greater glories and purpose. Humanity encourages us to keep moving forward, but not to lose sight of our history and our families."

"Spare me your sentimentality, you witless fool," said the Red Skull, turning away from the older man. His hands angrily clenched and unclenched his tight fists, willing Erskine to be silent. It was just like they had been arguing semantics back in Berlin. All the talks of morality and humanity and greater purpose. All lies meant to shield the puny little man too weak to seize his own destiny. The final comment, however, twisted like a knife in his heart.

"To lose all that makes you human is to become nothing but a monster. What does that make you, I wonder?"

The Red Skull threw a jab, hoping to smash the insufferable little man's nose into his face. But as his fist connected, Erskine faded into so much mist, vanishing before his very eyes.

_A hallucination_, the Red Skull realized. Some sort of delusion brought on by isolation in this unnatural mist. And that was assuming this was a natural fog. He would not be surprised to find out the very air of this place was toxic, explaining why no life could be found here.

Only the Red Skull, who grimly resumed his march.

* * *

On and on he continued through the fog, searching for his way. But try as he might, he never saw anything in the wasteland beyond some larger rocks and trees. The gray haze refused to truly leave, though it did thin here and there. If anything, the Red Skull was starting to miss the spirit of Erskine, at least it had been a distraction of sorts from the montonmy of the rocks and haze.

For a while, even the whispers and noises had stopped, but that made him even more on edge. And then he heard footfalls. At first they came in ones and twos, and stopped as soon as he heard them. Or paused to try and locate their source. Someone lurking in the mist, directly behind him. He pressed on, moving forward, and the footsteps started up again... getting closer and closer. Without hesitation the Red Skull reached out and grabbed at their source, yanking them forward into his line of sight. Only to behold...

"Doctor Zola?"

Indeed it was, the round-faced Swiss scientist looked just as lost and dishevelled as the Red Skull himself, his coat in dissarray, no hat resting atop of his head to hide the growing bald spots. Even his glasses were askew, though that was likely the Red Skull's doing, as he took only a moment to adjust them.

"What are you doing here, Doctor?" he demanded.

"Still following you, I imagine," the shorter man replied, clearly shaken. "What is this place? Where are we?"

"I don't know just yet... but this shouldn't be possible. You can't be here. You were taken by the Allies. By the Captain." Another hallucination? No, the good Doctor felt solid under his grip, the lapels of his coat firmly felt in his hands, the weight of his body very real.

"And remanded to Switzerland... for my war crimes," the man said, trembling under the Red Skull's increasingly dark gaze. Remembering now very keenly how Zola had sold him out, the Red Skull glared at him with a look fit to kill as surely as any of his inventions.

"You cut a deal with them!"

"I had no choice..."

"You could have died for your cause like you swore you would, Zola," the Red Skull grabbed the front of his coat and hauled him up close. "You could have made your death have meaning!"

The scientist was surprisingly calm when he replied, "Meaning in death doesn't make it any difference to the one dying. Either way I'm just as dead."

And it was the way he said the words that chilled the Red Skull and made him loosen his grip, freeing Zola. I'm, he said. I am. He did not say 'I _would_ be' he said 'I _am_.'

But they couldn't be. Neither of them. Zola was real, unlike the hallucination of Erskine. They were _both_ real.

Or they were _both_...

Without letting his thoughts finish the process they'd begun, the Red Skull angrily turned away from the lackey scientist and continued marching the way he'd been going.

"Where are we going?" asked Zola.

"We are moving forward," the Red Skull replied. "To find out where we are, and how to leave this wretched place."

He started off again, barely glancing back to ensure that Zola was following him. After a while, however, it became clear the shorter man could not keep the pace his red-faced colleague was setting.

"Herr Schmidt, please slow down... I fear I cannot keep up."

The Red Skull turned to glare angrily at the whiny little man following him, wishing nothing more than to crush his miserable head. Why did he even bother to keep the wretch around anyway? He was more a burden than a benefit on good days, and this was most certainly not one of them.

"Then stay here, if you will. You will only slow me down," he stated darkly. Without so much as a backward glance, he kept on marching. Either Zola would keep up with him, or he wouldn't.

"But, Herr Schmidt, without me, how will you continue Hydra's glorious work? My contributions-!"

"Your weapons failed me! At the height of the conflict you barely managed to slow them down!"

"My designs were perfect. Even before we harnessed the energy of the Cube..." he started to explain, but the Red Skull cut him off.

"Obviously they were not! They failed! YOU failed! Your machines were flawed, Arnim Zola!"

"Perhaps the flaw wasn't with the designs... perhaps the flaw was in our strategy?"

The way he worded it left little doubt that Zola was blaming the Red Skull for their failures. He grabbed the lapels of Zola's coat once again, hauling him forward to chew him out... but the meek Swiss scientist vanished, fading into mist between his fingers, leaving him grasping at empty air. Just like Erskine had.

Another soul he known in life. Possibly dead? The Allies would have no more use for Zola after he'd betrayed Hydra. Even if they were so weak and soft-hearted as to imprison him for his war crimes, he wouldn't last long in any sort of prison. The Red Skull was starting to believe. Believe that he could truly be...

No. No he couldn't believe that. Not yet.

Gathering his will to him like steel cords, he lashed it to his limbs and made himself move. Forward. The only direction he would ever travel. Even if it was towards oblivion itself.

* * *

Shadows and mist coalesced around him again, and the whispers. Vague faces and shapes emerged from the mists, only to be swallowed up by them again moments later. People the Red Skull knew, had heard of, had seen. All of them deceased. A Hydra lieutenant who'd perished in the conflict down in Greece. A former scientist in Arnim Zola's employ. An Allied Soldier the Red Skull had personally slain for daring to attack his person. A servant from Castle Zemo. Even one of the Nazi Officers who'd been sent to oversee weapons production, and dared to reduce his accomplishments in super science to magic and parlor tricks.

Even now they mocked him.

The whispers grew in volume, but never more clear. He continued to catch snippets of conversation. Accusations being made. Orders being barked. Questions being asked. The Red Skull pressed his hands to the sides of his head, trying to cover what remained of his ears to silence the cacophony of noise that threatened to drive him utterly mad.

"I cannot help you."

"You will burn!"

"You're insane!"

"Berlin is on zis map!"

"Stop him!"

"Cut off one head...!"

"Go to Hell!"

"SCHMIIDT!"

"Turn back..."

"Then how come you're running?!"

"It's not ready!"

"The time is not right."

"See you in Hell!"

"Hail Hydra!"

"What are you doing?"

"FIRE!"

"I live to serve."

"Most impressive work..."

"Kill them all!"

"Two more shall take its place!"

"The Red Skull has been indulged long enough."

"Buurrnn!"

"We fought to the last man!"

"The Valkyrie is ready, sir."

"For making it obvious how utterly mad you are."

"Sir, we must fall back!"

"Hail Hydra!"

Then, just as suddenly as it started to rise in volume, the voices fell silent. Replaced by just one. Saying just one thing. One terrible thing, echoing in the void of eternity, echoing in the mists, echoing in the back of the Red Skull's mind. Just one thing:

"You _failed_..."

The Red Skull tripped over a loose rock, exhausted from his march, and stumbled to his knees, wincing at the pain. For a moment, he could not even find the strength of will to stand back up. And then he saw a pair of jet black boots directly in front of him. Lifting his eyes up, he saw a familiar looking figure, the same whose voice had proclaimed his failure, the man who'd started his descent into darkness. Wearing that unassuming brown suit and tie, the armband on his arm like a splash of blood, the emblem of auspiciousness found there twisted into a symbol of hatred.

He could not bring himself to look the Fuhrer in his face.

"I thought I could take you and make you like me," the older man said, disappointment prominent in his tone. "Make you the greatest of us. Instead you become this monster."

"You wanted to make me the first of a new race of men. I'd say you more than succeeded!"

"A man without discipline, self-control, or restraint. Your ambitions destroyed you."

"To have ambition is the first lesson you taught me! To not accept your lot in life lying down!"

Finally, the Red Skull lifted his gaze, looking up at the man's face. That unassumingly simple, stern visage, the mop of slicked black hair, the joke of a moustache like a blotch of ink under his nose. He looked ridiculous. And yet even Johann Schmidt had been in awe of him, his ability to command attention, to give life to impossible dreams. In the end, the reality of the world had crushed him as surely as the Allies, but he had inspired Schmidt into finding the truth of the world... and the destiny of it as well.

Out of which Hydra had been born.

"I came further along than you ever did... I found the truth of your words, the power of the Gods. I seized it in my own two hands!"

"You reached too high," the Fuhrer replied shortly. "You flew towards the sun and, like Icarus, found your wings burned before you plummeted back to Earth. If you had just stayed with us... we could have helped build the paradise we always talked of."

"A thousand year reich?" he scoffed.

"A better world," the Fuhrer replied. "That dream is sadly over... for both of us. But I do not wish to keep fighting with you, Johann my boy. It is time you came back into the fold."

A hand stretched out, offering the him a lifeline. A way out of this nightmare. A way out of this Hell. Or at the very least, an ally in taking it. And all he would have to do... was admit he had been wrong.

The Red Skull hesitated... hand outstretched... then clenched his fingers into a tight fist.

"No... no I will not let it end like this! I did not fail you! YOU! FAILED! **_ME_**!"

His fist swung out, but the shadowy creature had already faded back into mist before he connected. More illusions sent to taunt him. Or else spirits who'd wisely retreated from his wrath.

"I will not fall! Not with my destiny unfulfilled! Do you hear me?!" he shook his fist up at the dark sky, roaring at the top of his lungs, defiant to the end.

He sunk to his knees, exhausted, momentarily unable to even stand. All his strength had fled him following his outburst. His stomach growled like some ominous beast, hunger clawing at the inside of his belly, but he would not submit. Waiting for the wave of nausea to pass, the Red Skull grimly pushed himself back to his feet and soldiered on.

* * *

The mists had thinned a little, but there was nothing new to behold in the wasteland before him. One part looked much the same as the last, broken and cold. There was nothing here now, if indeed there ever was. He imagined this might once have been a paradise, until some great weapon, some mighty force, had laid waste to it. There was nothing left but death and devastation.

He marched on. A large rock appeared out of the mists as he walked past, ducking under the branch of a petrified tree. There was a figure sitting casually on the rock, and as he drew closer, the Red Skull could make out a very distinct uniform of red, white, and blue.

Him. Of course it would be _him_.

"Are you another spirit of the dead sent to taunt me?" the Red Skull asked, scarcely sparing the colorful individual a glance as he kept walking past.

Captain America smirked, sliding easily off the rock and jogging to keep up with the Red Skull. "Hallucination? You don't believe you're going mad, do you Schmidt?"

"I am perfectly sane," the Red Skull replied. "It is this place. Something in the fog is clouding my thoughts. Make me... see things."

"Talking to a hallucination sounds pretty mad to me. But hey, what do I know?"

"I suppose you make for a welcome distraction," the Red Skull conceeded, even as he increased his pace to leave the annoying Captain behind. "But I have more important things to do than spend time chatting with a dead man."

The star-spangled man kept pace almost laughably easily with his Hydra counterpart. "Keep telling yourself that... just like you can keep telling yourself you're a God... when we both know you're anything but. The lowest of the low doesn't get to become the highest of the high."

"You did!" he snapped. "I read the reports on you, Steven Rogers. Your profile wasn't hard to get a hold of. You were far less than I when you took the serum. Some street urchin, lost and abandoned by your family and with nothing to show for any of your suffering."

"Talking about me? Or you?" asked the Captain with a playful smile. Oh that infuriating grin. So smug and charming, so full of himself. The sort that made him an icon to his beloved Americas, made him a shining star to the people. He probably had women swooning at his feet on a daily basis. The Red Skull wanted to gouge his eyes out until blood poured down over his smug face.

"I'm just a kid from Brooklyn... and you're just an orphan from the gulag," the Captain sneered. "You can lie to yourself all you want Schmidt. Take as much serum as you can choke down. It'll never change what you are. Or who."

The Red Skull roared in outrage, throwing his hardest punch, wanting nothing more than to silence the insolent shield-slinging soldier. His fist hit only mist, as the Captain vanished back into the ether from which he'd come. Still the Red Skull continued to swing his fists, lashing out left and right, wanting to do nothing more than tear the Captain to pieces. Destroy him and everyone he held dear. The power of hatred fueled his weakened limbs, for there was power in destruction. Far more than in conquering and ruling.

The Captain had destroyed everything he'd once had. His bases, his men, his goals. His dream of a world unified under Hydra's heel. The Red Skull vowed that he would destroy everything the Captain loved in turn. And if the rest of the human race stood beside the Captain and his flag-waving and rhetoric spouting...

_Then so be it_, he decided.

If humanity would not accept his leadership, then he would _not_ be its conqueror or its ruler. They were no longer worthy of his genius and his vision. He would not lead them.

Instead, the Red Skull would be their _destroyer_. If history was written by the winners, then he would pen the page of mankinds final chapter in the blood of thousands. He would crack the Earth asunder like a vengeful God. Then and only then would his destiny be realized.

* * *

**Authors Notes:  
**Included some tie-ins with the X-Men film series, especially First Class, despite that and the MCU being entirely separate franchises. All the Marvel movies should play nice together, however.

Hopefully I've helped provide a lot of insight into the Red Skull as a person and a character, which was what drew me to him in the first place. His comic backstory is remarkably tragic, even if a lot of it is self-engineered. Some of that was sprinkled in here.

For obvious reasons, the Fuhrer was not given the dignity of a name in my story, nor was the emblem he corrupted. But you all know who it was.


	3. Detainment

He must have blacked out, for when the crimson haze of anger faded from his eyes he was lying on the ground with no memory of how he'd fallen or when. Grimly, though his limbs felt weak and shaky, he pushed himself back to his feet and kept moving.

For how long he trudged through mist and darkness, he could not say. Time had no meaning here, and even the pain of his aching limbs and growling stomach eventually faded into mere background noise. Everything became dull and unclear, even the Red Skulls own thoughts were blurred and foggy.

Finally, however, it ended.

The monotony of the mists and wastes parted, and on the horizon he caught sight of a structure. At first dismissing it as another illusion, he found it did not fade in time as he angled towards it. If anything, it only grew more clear. More solid. A strange structure of some kind... not a natural rock formation, but something man-made... a ziggurat, perhaps, such as the kind the ancient civilizations of the Americas had built.

His spirits renewed, he forced his battered and exhausted body to walk. He could and would close the distance between himself and this discovery.

The mists thinned the closer he got, which further bolstered his resolve. His pace quickened, his face grim with determination. If not salvation, then perhaps answers could be found here. And at the moment, the truth would suffice. He would find his own salvation after that, or else make it.

As he grew closer to the structure, he beheld a curious sight amidst the fading fog.

Great emeralds easily two meters high and half that wide floated in the air, each containing a dark shape within. Curious, the Red Skull drew closer to examine, then recoiled as if physically struck. Inside each one lay a body, long since decayed to the point of skeletonization. Most were human, he recognized the armor and cloaks of viking warriors, as well as many other warrior cultures from Earth's past. Some still even clutched their weapons in their hands.

But some others were not. Their skulls were twisted and warped, the bones lined with sharp edges not found on a regular body. Horns, claws, fangs and fins adorned their frames. Their skin color ranged from a sickly green to a darkened blue to a burnt orange and every shade in between. These were monsters he had only heard folklore and mythology of.

"What freakish abominations are these?" he asked aloud. "Demons?"

Not having ever believed in Hell, Schmidt had never believed in demons either. Abstract concepts meant to terrorize children. Or else creatures that, like the Gods, had visited his world and been misunderstood by the primitive minds of past days gone by. Still it was that here, confronted face to face with such creatures, even the Red Skull found his skepticism waning. He was starting to think he would believe almost anything at this point.

Momentarily, the Red Skull glanced back the way he came, at the thickening mist and the shadows within. To his own thoughts and tormenting illusions. He could not go back.

He continued on... there was no other path he could take but forward.

* * *

As he approached the structure, he found it not to be a proper ziggurat or pyramid of any kind, merely a rising hill with a long, wide staircase. The top still lay shrouded in mist, but the bottom was clear enough. And so was the great beast laying at the base of the stairs.

A great wolf the size of a tank, gray-furred and feral looking, with claws as long and sharp as daggers. It watched his approach with unholy blue eyes, keeping him in sight the whole time. A collar of wrought iron encircled its neck, chaining it to the ground at the base of the stairs. The Red Skull stopped just shy of where he imagined its reach ended.

"What manner of monster are you?" he asked, wishing he still held his pistol. Even one with regular bullets instead of Tesseract energy would be welcome right about now. As it was, his body tensed, ready to fight.

The beast lunged, and he smacked it across its snout, hoping it was a vulnerable spot. He felt every knuckle break from the impact, but drew back his fist and struck again, even harder. The serum coursing through his veins meant such minor injuries healed almost before they even registered.

The great wolf retreated, giving a very surprised sort of whine, very dog-like. Evidently it wasn't used to meals that fought back. Emboldened by his success, the Red Skull advanced, lashing out again at the beasts face, throwing punch after punch. This proved a mistake. Faster than the eye could follow, the jaws had drawn back and sunk into his arm, threatening to tear it off. He cursed in pain, smacking the top of the beasts head with his other fist, forcing it to release his arm before further damage could be done. Claws raked across the front of his uniform as he was sent hurtling to the ground, swatted aside like a gnat. Thankfully he fell out of its reach, rolling away and back to his feet before the mighty monster as it pawed at the ground and growled at him menacingly.

He might have considered retreat, but at this point to retreat was to die, and if that was so, he may as well have died at the claws of this unholy beast than starve to death in the wasteland.

Giving a wordless roar of defiance, the Red Skull charged.

He ducked under the wolf's guard and slamming into its body with his own. Serum-enhanced legs pumped hard as he tried to knock the beast flat on its back. He felt hot, fetid breath wash over his back as he pushed still harder, straining his aching body to the breaking point. Claws pawed at his chest, but could not gain enough purchase to dig in. Nor could the snapping teeth just behind his head. As he'd suspected, this close the great wolf's size worked against it.

Digging one foot into the ground and side-stepping aside, the Red Skull let the wolf's momentum throw itself forward, kicking at its side to knock it down the stairs. It rolled to its clawed feet inhumanly fast, nearly tangling itself on its own chain, snarling up at him. The Red Skull scrambled up the stairs, with the monstrous wolf giving chase, snapping at his heels.

Finally, the beast gave a strangled yelp as the chain dug into its neck and it caught on its chain, unable to climb any further. A final paw swipe missed the back of the Red Skull by mere inches, but did not so much as scratch his flight suit.

Safe for the moment, the Red Skull gasped for breath, sinking down onto his backside on the stairs. He was about halfway up now, though he still could not quite see the top in the thick mists. He gazed back down at his opponent, watching as the wolf snarled and growled at him dangerously, locking him in its eldritch blue gaze.

"If they went to the trouble of putting you here, meine friend," he said to the guardian. "Then whatever is here... is worthwhile."

Green flames erupted to either side of him as a pair of bronzed braziers lit up, illuminating the staircase and the Red Skull upon it. He leapt to his feet instantly, peering up at the very top of the staircase.

"My my... what manner of mortal are you?"

The Red Skull stared up the staircase, now able to see a little more clearly. The mists had parted as the green fires rose in height. Curiously, he felt no heat from the strange flames, if anything they seemed to radiate cold air instead. But they did provide illumination, and the view up was most illuminating indeed.

At the very top of the stairs, standing in front of an ancient stone throne, was a woman of staggering presence. Easily six and a half feet tall, she towered over the Red Skull, no short man himself. She was classically proportioned, limbs long and shapely, face cold but beautiful. She didn't seem to be older than seventeen, despite her great height. Even the Red Skull, having long since abandoned such concepts of art, beauty, or love, found her desirable to look upon. But then again, it was not her physical beauty that drew him. It was an invisible aura of _power_ surrounding her.

She wore a dark emerald cloak and odd dress, an elaborate headdress and hood drawn down over the top of her face. Her lips were stained a dark green that was almost black, quirked up in a smile of amusement. It was strange and alien, yet at the same time, he could not help but feel it also looked remarkably familiar.

"Who are you?" he asked, taking a step towards her. "What is this place?"

For a long moment she did not speak. Then her green lips quirked upwards as a lilting tone escaped from them.

"This is Niflheim," she explained, gesturing with a perfectly sculptured hand.

He recognized the name instantly from his extensive study of Norse Mythology (though it seemed now he could properly call it Norse History). One of the Nine Realms, located along the lower roots of Yggdrasil, the World Tree. Called the Misty Realm, it was said to be a wasteland of poisonous rivers and lost souls. Nilfheim was also home to the dishonored dead, in a separate region called Hel.

That must have been where he was now... which meant...

"Then I _am_ dead," the Red Skull realized, feeling his limbs grow numb.

Mocking laughter greeted that grim statement, as the woman shook her head. "Oh no, mortal. Not quite yet, at any rate. You've held up remarkably well, all things considered."

He peered up at her, taking another step forward to stand at the top of the stairs, just in front of the... Goddess? If indeed Goddess she was, though at the moment he was inclined to believe as much. Taking another long look and recalling his studies again, he imagined she could only be the ruler of Hel, whom bore the same name as the unholy land she ruled over.

"You are... known as Lady Hel?" he asked.

"I am Lady Hel_a_," she replied, emphasizing the vowel following her name. "Of Asgard. And whom are you, my red faced mortal friend?"

He stood stiffly at attention, snapping his heels together. "Johann Schmidt. Former Obergruppenführer of the SS Totenkopf. Following that the Supreme Head of Hydra."

If he was hoping his words would impress, they didn't. She merely gave him a quizzical look.

"They call me the Red Skull," he added. Once he'd hated that nickname... now... it just felt so right.

"Appropriate," Hela mused aloud. "I see then... you are from Midgard. How very interesting."

A long silence stretched between them as they gauged one another, and the Red Skull was about to ask another question, when his growling stomach interrupted. He frowned darkly, feeling betrayed by his own body. But he imagined he must have looked quite a sight, his uniform covered in dust and grit, slashed by the great beast below guarding the staircase, blood still dripping all over the stone floor.

Hela, on the other hand, seemed to understand. She held out her hand, bidding him follow her.

"Come with me, Red Skull. It is so rare I entertain guests..."

* * *

Behind the throne a long table had been set up, already laid out with a feast. No servants were visible, and idly the Red Skull wondered what sort of beings they would be if there were any. Spirits? Or perhaps demons? Neither seemed all that remote a possibility anymore.

His hostess took a seat at one end of the table, bidding him to take the other. He did not sit, but instead eyed a plateful of apples, shaded a rich golden and most succulent looking. He paused only briefly as he recalled the Greek myth regarding pomegranates, but ate them all the same, needing his strength. Juice flowed down his red chin as he stuffed the fruit into his mouth, nevermind how he must have looked.

For her part, Hela seemed more amused than offended by his lack of table manners. Clearly, meeting a mortal, and one not even dead at that, was a novelty to her. She sipped at some sort of cerulean liquid, possibly a wine, and waited for him to continue the conversation.

Only after he'd sated his hunger for food did the Red Skull turn back to the conversation, still hungry for answers. Fortunately, it seemed that Hela spoke a language as easily as he did, or else had some means of translating meanings between them. Fortunate, if they were ever to make headway in a conversation. "This is Hel..." he said slowly, working it out aloud. "The Norse Realm of the Dead. The dishonored dead, if I recall correctly."

She nodded, confirming his suspicions.

"Then this is where you claim their... souls?" he asked. The concept intrigued him. It was one thing to slay an enemy's body, but to destroy their spirit was something quite different.

"Those whose commit great crimes against Asgard are imprisoned in its dungeons to rot for the remainder of their natural lives. Upon their death, their bodies are denied a proper funeral. Instead, they are sent here, to be mine," she explained. "This task King Odin himself bequeathed to me."

Odin, All-Father of the Gods. Red Skull recalled his research. And Asgard was another of the Nine Realms, which Hela claimed to be from. So it seemed as if the Norse Mythology of Earth did indeed have the broad strokes of the truth, and only some of the finer details had escaped the primitive minds of early mankind. This was less Underworld and more...

Realization struck again. "This is a death camp," he realized. Having started his career in the Third Reich, alongside the Nazi Regime... had made him very familiar with the concept.

Hela again seemed confused. "You have something similar on Midgard?"

"Of a sort," he replied. "But it is a place criminals are sent to die. Prison and tomb both."

"Ah. Then it _is_ very similar. For those who commit the greatest crimes against Asgard are mine. Oathbreakers, murderers, thieves, blood traitors... when their lives are over, their bodies and souls are mine to claim for the remainder of eternity."

He glanced out across the horizon, noting the numerous floating emeralds in the air. Caskets then, of a very odd sort. Putting the bodies fully on display for Hela and any she might entertain. As part of some grand necrotic trophy case.

It was beautiful.

This was what he had spent his lifetime looking for. The home of the Gods had been opened up to him.

Now he had but to claim his rightful place in it.

* * *

"So, do tell... how did a living mortal happen to find their way into Hel? I don't think such has happened in... over a thousand years," she mused. Those had been much more interesting times in Niflheim, she remembered. Her grandfather had been very busy back then.

He frowned darkly as he recalled the last few moments spent on Earth. The battle. The Captain. The... "... Tesseract..."

Hela's head tilted quizzically to the side. "Tesseract?"

"The Jewel of Odin's Treasure Room..." he clarified, though he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to her. "I held it in my hand... I could feel the raw power coursing beneath its surface. But I could not control it. It... I..."

She interrupted his musings before they became too chaotic.

"You touched it?"

"I... I was not thinking clearly," the Red Skull replied. "The Valkyrie was damaged and the Captain... he'd ruined everything. I couldn't let him take the Tesseract from me as well."

"It is a wonder you survived then," Hela replied. "For an Asgardian to hold an Infinity Stone is... difficult. But a mortal? You should have been destroyed."

"I thought I had been, at first... instead I find myself here."

"Ahhh... that explains everything," she said.

The Red Skull looked up. "It does?"

"Of course. You are mine."

The way she said it instantly set him on edge. He recalled what she said about this place, being a death camp for the worst sorts of criminals that Asgard had to offer. That Hel was both prison and tomb. And Hela was the jailor and the grave keeper. The Realm Eternal found the people here so deplorable they sentenced them to this Hellish place, even long after they were dead. And he had just confessed to having held their King's prized Tesseract. Perhaps he was viewed as a thief of the highest order.

He stiffened, drawing himself up to his full height, squared his shoulders. "I," he declared darkly. "Am not beholden to any man, woman, or _Goddess_," he proclaimed. "If this is the Realm of the Dead then I have no place here. And I have many, many enemies still that I will send here in my place. Tell how I can return to Earth... to Midgard... so I might return to my glorious work."

_Or else_, was definitely implied in his words, despite not being spoken aloud. Despite his threatening tone, however, Lady Hela seemed completely at ease as she set her wine glass down and sauntered over towards him, towering over the Red Skull without even trying to.

"Here is where you have been sent, and here is where you will remain, my beautiful Red Skull," she said, reaching out a hand to caress his bony cheek. He recoiled instinctively, turning his back on her. The floating emeralds in the air seemed far more ominous now than before. They were not simply caskets... they were prisons. And one was floated around somewhere, waiting for him.

"Nilfheim is nothing to fear, Johann Schmidt. I can craft a paradise for you. A well-deserved reward for your ambition and tenacity. Would you reject a chance to be truly happy again, Johann?" she asked, resting her hands on his shoulders.

He tensed, and not only because her touch. Because of that name.

If this was another illusion meant to test his resolve, he had already made his decision. He would not lie down and die. Not with his destiny unfulfilled.

"My name... is the Red Skull," he said, whirling on her and throwing a punch.

If he'd hoped to knock her out in one hit, he was sorely disappointed. She caught his blow easily, almost casually. The Red Skull gaped in complete shock. The closest he'd ever had to a match back on Earth had been Captain America, and even then, he'd never been stronger than an equal. But Hela caught his blow and backhanded him onto the ground as casually as he might swat aside an Allied soldier. Despite her slight figure she was tougher than iron. No, it was like she was made of diamond, impossibly hard and unyielding.

"This could have gone easier on you," Hela said coldly. "Regretfully... you have chosen to walk the path of pain instead. Your mortal spirit will belong to me... forever."

She picked him up by the front of his uniform as if lifting a child, hurling him almost casually onto a metal platform beside her throne. He staggered to keep his footing. The ground gave a hiss as he settled into place and the machine began to hum as it powered up. Once again he was struck with how familiar it all was to the technological work of Arnim Zola.

There was no magic here, no Gods. Only beings that seemed like them to the uneducated and unwashed masses. In that respect, they were no different than him.

The ground beneath his feet continued to hum as the machine began its nefarious work. Cold, frozen green crystals erupted into being, climbing up his frame, freezing him in place. It under a minute they had passed his knees, locking him into place and still climbing higher. There would be no escape.

Even so, he paused to glare at his captor, his gaze wrathful.

"This is not the end, Hela."

She raised an eyebrow at that, clearly disbelieving him. With an almost casual saunter she stepped right up to the machine, even as the cold emerald substance passed his waist, freezing his limbs in place. Hela leaned in close, her face very near his. Almost close enough to kiss him if she wanted, and gave a wicked smile.

"It is... for you," she replied coolly, leaning back at the last moment to avoid being caught in her own prison.

His last thought, as the cold crystal encased his head, was that he would find a way to be free.

And the universe would burn for this.

* * *

**Authors Notes:  
**Obviously a slight crossover with the film Thor here, but given how closely intertwined they already were in the First Avenger, I think its justified. As with the movies, leaning towards the sufficiently advanced scientific side of things rather than the truly magical.

Personally, I picture the Hela in my story portrayed by an actress like Emma Elizabeth Hiddleston, whom is the real-life sister of Loki's actor Tom Hiddleston. Add some angling and CGI to make her taller and boom, there's your Hela. With the personality of a Norse Perky Goth.

Not intended as a ship tease between Red Skull and Hela, though you can read it that way if you want. He's attracted to power, and she's attracted to death, that's all.


	4. Departure

For the next sixty-eight years, five months, three weeks, four days, nine hours and seventeen minutes there was virtually no change for the Red Skull. Or indeed, much of Hel. Niflheim was as quiet as the grave.

And then an event took place.

The Asgardians called it the Convergence, the alignment of the worlds, an event that only took place once every five thousand years or so. And whenever it came it meant for every realm the same thing.

Chaos.

When the Convergence took place the walls between the worlds began to crumble, Yggdrasil's branches and roots tangled upon itself as the Nine Realms began intertwining. Portals big and small opened across the landscapes of a dozen worlds, trading warriors and monsters into unexpected situations and environments. Gravity and light were thrown in flux, heat and cold vied for supremacy, the very laws of physics varied from moment to moment.

It was madness, it was chaos, it was anarchy.

More importantly, it was an opportunity.

Niflheim was not exempt the shaking chaos of the converging worlds. Portals opened amidst its misty landscapes and poisoned rivers, and Lady Hela watched in fascination as two warriors went charging between such entryways, locked in a fight so intense even the quaking realms could not cause them to break off their respective attack.

A stray bolt of lightning lanced past her head, failing to even ruffle her headdress as she kept watching the entertaining display. Countless new playthings had already stumbled into her domain, and she watched and waited for a chance to capture them once the Convergence ended. Oh how wonderfully entertaining the last century of existence had been.

What she did not notice, however, was that the bolt of lightning had grazed against one of the floating emerald prisons. A miniscule change in its pre-ordained flight path knocked off its internal balance, making it first wobble, then shake, then come crashing to the ground, where it shattered into a million tiny pieces. Its occupant drew a shaky breath of air, his first in decades, and sat up in astonishment as he saw his prison gone.

Johann Schmidt, the Red Skull, was finally free.

* * *

Unlike the dreamy paradise she had offered (and could have very easily given) Hela cast those she truly loathed into a perpetual abyss. Their bodies lay locked in emerald crystal, on full display for her, but their minds were trapped in a fugue with no past or present or future, only an endless nothingness.

With his memory frozen at the precise moment of his imprisonment, the Red Skull recalled instantly where he was and what he was doing. He wasted no time in this opportunity to escape, though he paused as he beheld the skies. Great discs of swirling energy lit up the very heavens themselves, portals to other worlds shining through. A blazing lake of fire, a foreboding mountain of ice, a vast jungle of trees, even a sprawling city of silver. Though hard pressed to identify them all so quickly, the Red Skull realized these were the other mythical Nine Realms. Just as he had used the Tesseract to come to Niflheim, he could use these portals to escape.

To Earth, or rather Midgard, if he was lucky. If not, then almost anywhere in the universe would be an improvement over his current confinement. He took off running, sprinting across the landscape.

Lady Hela spotted him as he tried to slip past, his black uniform and red visage easily visible amongst the lifeless rocks and swirling gray mists of her world. More amused than angered by his attempt to escape, she casually strolled down the stairs of her throne in pursuit, taking her sweet time of it. She did, however, take a moment to obtain her Nightsword and sheath it at her hip.

Not knowing this, the Red Skull only sensed he did not have much time available to him. Portals appeared all over the place, opening and closing at random, some far off in the sky above, some very close indeed. The moment he turned towards one, it was long gone by the time he reached it.

Several times he spotted warriors in black and white, doll-like masks, as well as blue men twice his height brandishing great weapons of ice. Frost Giants, it seemed, and possibly Dark Elves. Creatures of myth just as real as the Red Skull, crashing in battle across the misty landscape. A year ago, he might well have scoffed, believing the truth had become legend thanks to centuries passing and the ignorance of lesser men. Now, it was his reality.

The ground shook as a great beast went roaring past, narrowly missing crushing the Red Skull under its foot as it stomped after a company of fleeing marauders. Two of them came charging at him, perhaps blaming him for their troubles.

"Out of my way, wretches!" he snarled.

Roaring, one of the Marauders swung a sword, aiming to decapitate the Red Skull. The head of Hydra ducked underneath the clumsy swing and lashed out with an upprecut to the fool's gut, denting his plate armor and knocking all the wind out of his lungs. The one beside him swung around with some sort of polearm. The Red Skull effortlessly side-stepped and retaliated in kind, grabbing the Marauder and breaking the fool over his knee, smashing him to the ground afterwards. Though tougher than a human opponent might've been, they were definitely not on the same level as an Asgardian like Hela.

They weren't Gods. They could be defeated.

Skull claimed the man's bastard sword for himself, skewing him through the throat for his troubles, and watched as the other man bolted. He gave chase, hoping the witless fool at least had enough sense to know where he was going. If not, he'd kill the other marauder as well, then find his own way. This region of Niflheim the Red Skull had not seen before, but it seemed much more craggy and roughshod than the almost smooth plains he'd originally traversed. The ground was split open in great ravines and high cliffs. The uneven ground made it more difficult to move fast, as well as providing unexpected pitfalls.

The armored marauder went toppling over one such cliff, cursing out in some strange tongue the Red Skull didn't recognize. As he did, however, he vanished into thin air. It was as if he'd stepped behind an invisible curtain. The implications were obvious enough: It was a way out.

The Red Skull ran, sprinting the distance in seconds skidding to a halt at the cliff's edge as he peered down. A great green serpent went roaring overhead, but thankfully passed him by as he ran. The ravine stretched a considerable distance, both to the other end and way, way down. If this was no portal, or if it had already closed, and he fell, the fall would likely kill him. Plus, he realized he had no idea where such a portal led. There were worse places than Hel, he'd glimpsed them through the myriad shifting portals high overhead in the skies.

"What will you do now, I wonder?" came a familiar voice.

He glanced back to see Hela already there, standing almost casually. She leaned to one side with a hand on her hip completely relaxed. She hadn't even bothered to draw the long, black metal sword at her side.

The Red Skull held up the Marauders sword in his hand, assuming a position to use it. Though he trained primarily with firearms and in hand-to-hand combat, he had some experience with a saber. Hela's expression did not change, she still looked completely relaxed, very un-intimidated by his weapon. Evidently she was waiting for him to make up his mind, having no particular care what he decided.

Having no more illusions about winning a fight with a vertible Goddess of Death, the Red Skull realized he had but two options:

To be her prisoner again, or to fall to his death. Likely to her, that meant either way she had his body to put on display for the rest of eternity, however long that might last. The Red Skull decided he would rather perish that remain suspended in a deathless sleep for all time, and with no further hesitation he threw the alien blade in her direction, turned and leapt.

Hela knocked the blade aside with an almost casual backhand and reached out as if to pluck him from danger.

For a second, he hung suspended in air, the seconds stretched out to millennia, drifting down into the great chasm of nothingness... and then, barely having passed the threshold of the cliff, his body was swallowed up by the very mists, vanishing through another portal of the Convergence. One of the very last ones, in fact.

As the portals closed and the Nine Realms fell silent again, the mists once again closed thickly around the ruler of Hel as she peered down into the ravine where her quarry had escaped. Hela seethed angrily at being denied her precious trophy. No one denied her such a prize. No one.

Her visage flickered iridescent green briefly, half of her face appearing skeletal and decaying for a moment, like a corpse. Taking a deep breath, she re-asserted iron clad control and appeared darkly beautiful again.

"Run and hide, my Red Skull," she whispered coldly. "Death will claim you eventually. And when it does, you will be mine again."

She turned on her heel and strolled back towards her throne. There was much to do.

* * *

Unlike his last time passing through worlds, when he'd been engulfed in white light and flame, this time the Red Skull maintained his full consciousness. Indeed, if not for the sudden shift in the air and orientation of gravity, he might well have simple stepped from one room into another.

He fell to the ground, thankfully only a short distance, and quickly scrambled to his feet, looking all around. There was no sign of the Marauder who'd come through in front of him. While the buildings did not look familiar to him, the structure was undoubtedly human in design, bricks and mortar and plaster. The sky overhead was once again blue, and the sun shone overhead, uncomfortably bright but far warmer than the dusky skies of Niflheim. Even the air smelled the same.

There was no doubt in his mind. This was Earth. He was home.

Not given to such sentimental displays as weeping at his exceedingly good fortune, the Red Skull went to work immediately. He did not recognize the alleyway he'd fallen into, but he could hear people up ahead. Some screaming, running, cursing. Typical mob mentality, either fleeing from danger or flocking towards it out of reckless stupidity. He ducked out of sight, staying in the shadows of the alleyway as he watched and listened.

He overheard snippets of conversations, all in heavily accented English. This was Britain, he realized. One of the last bastions to hold out against the Axis powers, and second on the list of Hydra's conquests following the Americas. That was fortunate, English was a language he'd taken a great deal of effort to master given his enemies in Britain and the Americas. His command of French and Russian was, by contrast, quite rusty. He barely knew enough Italian to tell a fascist to go screw themselves.

Here he was, freshly escaped from Niflheim and Hel itself, and he was recalling his language lessons. He laughed darkly at the irony of it all.

A grin stretched across his crimson lips as he continued to laugh, realizing fully just what he had done. He had been as good as dead, trapped in the Norse underworld for all time. And now he lived again. For the second time in his life, he had passed through Hellfires and emerged the stronger for it. A new man, a new _God_.

With that revelation, his spirits soared, his desire for destruction and conquest stroked like a fire in his heart. Wasting no time, he popped open a nearby garbage bin and rummaged through its contents, locating easily enough what he wanted: a newspaper.

Though he spoke English with exceeding ease, it took him a moment to recall how to read the words. When he did, his eyes widened at the sight of the date. The paper was dated November 3rd, 2013. He'd been away from Earth for almost _seventy_ whole years. A lifetime had passed in the blink of an eye. This was the turn of the new millenium, the twenty-first century. Everything had changed.

Momentarily stunned by the revelation, the Red Skull did not notice the hobo who had wandered into the alleyway and caught sight of him. The sharp inhalation of breath, however, caused him to turn and glare at the wretched specimen before him, dressed in a dark hooded jacket and tan slacks, all stained with wear. A paper bag was in his hand, and even from here the Red Skull could smell the cheap alcohol on his breath.

"Whoa, what tha bloody 'ell?" said the homeless man. "Who tha heck are you supposed to be?"

"That is none of your concern," retorted the Red Skull, bawling up the newspaper in his fist. He stepped forward, the light falling more readily on his features, causing the homeless man to recoil in shock but, sadly, not fear.

"Bloody 'ell, mate... what tha 'ell happened to your _face_?" he asked stupidly.

The Red Skull seethed angrily, unable to bear the foolish man's wagging tongue any longer. As simple as breaking a toothpick, he reached out, grabbed the idiots head and shoulder, and snapped his neck. His wretched body crumpled to the ground in an instant. Like a puppet with the strings cut. The bag in his hand hit the ground, and its contents shattered, staining the ground wet with alcohol.

Humanity was still as weak and stupid as it had ever been, he saw. In the world Hydra had envisioned, such filth as this would have been slain in the womb long before he'd become such a deteriment to society. Coupled with what information was in the newspaper brought the Red Skull to one inescapable conclusion: they had lost the War.

"Captain America..." he growled, clenching his hand into a fist. This was all _his_ fault. The damned, patriotic, delusional soldier and his cursed tin shield. He and his witless Allies. They had ruined _everything_.

They had taken everything from the Red Skull. But they had failed in one critical area: he was still alive. Hydra may have fallen, but it would never truly die as long as he lived. They could cut off as many heads as they like, burn the necks, smother them in flames, but _he_ would always survive, and thus _Hydra_ would always survive.

Now was not the time to go public with his return, however. He needed to rebuild his base of operations, contact those who might still be loyal to Hydra, though he suspected he would not find many. Virtually everyone he'd known would be either dead or ancient by now. Still, he had to try. Acquire allies, then find resources, weapons, supplies. If he was truly lucky, find out what had happened to his coupe. He did greatly love that car, especially after Zola had been able to provide it with such excellent upgrades.

In other words, he had his work cut out for him.

The man on the ground groaned weakly, an arm twitched. Evidently not quite dead just yet, though with a broken neck he'd soon wish he was. The Red Skull frowned down at him, but realized he could yet prove useful.

First thing came first.

* * *

A few short minutes later, the Red Skull stepped out of the alleyway, wearing the hooded jacket and slacks of the homeless man. His flight uniform lay in the trash nearby. Likewise, the dead man had been stuffed into the garbage bin and stuffed naked as the day he'd been born. No doubt his brutal death would cause quite a stir in the community when he was finally found, but the Red Skull felt safe enough from being identified as his murderer. Even ignoring the fact that Johann Schmidt been likely declared dead for nearly a century now, ever since his transformation his fingerprints had become too blurred to read properly.

Drawing the hood down low and the collars of the jacket up high, he slipped in amongst the throng of people and tried not to gape at the strange world in which he was in. This was an Earth most unlike the one he'd known previously. So much had changed. Much was familiar, but much more was different. Everything was so big. So fast. So loud. But mankind remained as vile, narrow minded and selfish as ever, he noted. Even a casual stroll down the streets had toughs bumping into him rudely, advertisements for money and cheap products plastered everywhere. Even the smell was absolutely abysmal.

If anything, humanity seemed to have only grown that much _more_ corrupt in his absence. Their liberties and their freedoms merely gave them greater cause to inflict harm on their world and themselves. The world had most definitely changed.

But the Red Skull had just as equally _not_ changed.

Seeing he was still drawing a few curious looks from passerby, he paused at a nearby convenience store, swiping a pair of large sunglasses from a display case and pressing them over his face to hide his eyes and upper face, masking himself as he'd done so many times in the past. When the clerk offered a token protest he silenced him with a glare and kept on moving, hoping to be long gone before any police or military arrived.

The Red Skull had not changed. Nor had his mission, his goal, or his destiny, changed.

"Heil Hydra," he whispered as he walked back into the world. The words formed a mantra in his mind as he made his plans for tomorrow.

And the glorious future that awaited.

* * *

**Authors Notes:**

As always, please review if you enjoyed.

In Norse Mythology as well as Marvel's Thor, Hel(a) was half-corpse, but in the latter material she tended to hide her disfigurement with magic.

Further intertwining the Thor film with the First Avenger, the Dark World and the rest of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, which creates a rough timeline of events, putting the Red Skull back into action roughly where the current movies are at with the Age of Ultron.

Like I said way back at the beginning: This is definitely a story I hope is proven wrong, because it means he'll really be back. As it is, however, I'm not going to hold out any hopes, given that Hugo Weaving has said he's not interested in reprising the role anytime soon.


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